


Nervous Energy

by adriena



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, One Shot, first fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 18:08:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1437724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adriena/pseuds/adriena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John’s body, the traitorous dysfunctional marvel of biology that it was, shivered slightly, overwhelmed by the sensations. But it was enough for Sherlock. Sherlock who noticed the slightest twitch of a brow, the most inconsequential catch of breath. A simple mistake to anyone else's eyes was a Freudian slip in his. And so John didn't dare let him see his eyes, the last piece of evidence left to collate. How had it gotten to this?</p><p> </p><p>“Sherlock. Sherlock, what is this?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nervous Energy

**Author's Note:**

> As this is my first fic, all constructive criticism is appreciated. Kudos and/or comments make my day :) Hope you enjoy!
> 
> P.S.  
> if you see any mistakes please point them out and I'll be sure to fix them.

Nervous energy coursed through the flat, and John could feel it before he’d stepped foot outside his room. He could tell something was off, shifted somehow, even if he couldn’t place it, not yet.

When he stepped down the stairs and saw Sherlock looking out the window with his fingers resting on his chin and eyes flashing quickly from side to side, he felt the anxiety start to creep unbidden into his system. He couldn’t tell what was going on, what was different. Sherlock was a thinker, so it shouldn’t be surprising to see him doing just that: thinking. Perhaps renovating his mind palace or recataloguing his knowledge. But it was different, and it set John on edge.

As John attempted to procure himself a cuppa with the limited resources he could gather in the kitchen, Sherlock walked in circles around the couch.

“Sherlock, you haven’t eaten since the case started three days ago. You need to eat.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, instead electing to continue his circular walks around the furniture. John knew he had barely slept in the past week, not at all during the case they’d just wrapped up. It was, quite obviously, the wife of the deceased. It was her ally, the merchant’s cousin, that was more difficult to find. The embezzlement was a surprise to all of them. Except Sherlock, of course.

“Sherlock, _are_ you human?” John mumbled as he continued

The nervous energy was still there, wrapping around the room and stifling John. He wanted Sherlock to respond, to do anything. He wanted . . . he wanted something. The uncertainty that tainted the morning was grinding on his nerves. He decided to rest his cup on the table then step out to get Sherlock’s attention. This was an anomaly in itself. He’d have normally left Sherlock to walk the halls of his mind palace until he felt he needed John for one thing or the other.

Before he could open his mouth Sherlock was looking directly at him.

“It’s obvious.”

John was confused, but then he thought back to his previous question. Well, he hadn’t meant it. He had just wanted Sherlock to respond, which he just did, yet John still felt like something was yet to be done, the nervous energy still pulsing around him.

“Sometimes I find myself questioning it . . ,” was all John could say, or all he thought to say, because it was thrumming in his ears, pulsing in his veins, and he didn't know what it was or where it came from. Sherlock’s curls curved around the nape of his neck and hit his strong jaw, and John could no longer hold his intense gaze. He glanced away. And it was hen he remembered the argument they had a few days prior. John angry because Sherlock was being insufferable, Sherlock accusing John of insinuating he wanted _something_ from Sherlock, something more, something different, maybe for Sherlock to change. It was all very confusing. How had he even forgotten? It was the case, of course. They tended to top priority lists whenever they came about. But now, it was as if they had never stopped arguing. Was this what Sherlock's pacing was about?

Sherlock grabbed John’s arm and slammed it on his chest, right above his heart, but John steadfastly refused to look into his eyes. He could feel Sherlock’s patience wearing thin.

“Is this evidence enough of my mortality, John? What else do you need?”

“I never questioned it.”

Even as the words passed his lips, he realised they both already knew the answer to the first question. But the second went unanswered, and John stared daggers into the ground, hoping Sherlock would leave it be, acknowledge it, but have the decency to let it slide, just this once. He should have known he was asking for too much.

“What do you want from me, John?”

Sherlock’s hand was cold, his grip like a vice, each bone in his slender fingers so suited for coaxing music from the violin, now attempting to coax from John a response that he didn’t, _couldn’t_ , give. Blood was rushing through his veins, thumping in his ears, racing away from his heart to his extremities, a biological fight or flight response. A thin film of sweat coated his forehead, his breathing was shallow, and Sherlock’s heartbeat, _oh_ , his heartbeat, it felt like a wild drum against John’s palm.

John wondered, for a moment, how they had gotten there. He glanced over to the kitchen where tendrils of steam wafted from his tea cup and curled into themselves in the air, illuminated by the mid-morning sunlight. It was deceitfully pastoral, a calm that didn't mirror the stare he could feel on his skin. The breath skirting down his neck in short pants. The maddening beat of Sherlock’s heart against his palm.The heat that radiated from Sherlock’s body in waves. Yet his fingers were like shards of ice digging into John’s wrist.

John’s body, the traitorous dysfunctional marvel of biology that it was, shivered slightly, overwhelmed by the sensations. But it was enough for Sherlock. Sherlock who noticed the slightest twitch of a brow, the most inconsequential catch of breath. A simple mistake to anyone else's eyes was a Freudian slip in his. And so John didn't dare let him see his eyes, the last piece of evidence left to collate. How had it gotten to this?

“Sherlock. Sherlock, what is this?”

“What do you want, John? And please do look at me.”

John took a deep breath, then another. He felt ridiculous copying the breathing technique Harry taught him after taking her first yoga class. ‘It’ll center your energy,’ she had said. He had listened, ecause he was proud of her for taking the first steps to end her alcoholism. Ridiculous it was, but it seemed to help. His heartbeat wasn’t as erratic as before.

The carpet still held his gaze, and Sherlock’s hand still held his wrist.

“ _Must_ you be so unfailingly _stubborn_. John, _look at me_."

And so he did, for whatver reason. Perhaps the nervous energy was to blame.

John set his shoulders and looked directly into the awaiting eyes of Sherlock. It was just as he expected, but all that he hadn’t prepared for. They were like orbs of intensity focused directly on him, searching in his eyes for an answer his lungs held captive. John refused to shiver again. Instead, he held Sherlock’s gaze.

The tension in the room shifted, impossibly, almost imperceptibly, but it did. John could still feel Sherlock’s heart thumping steadily against his palm. Sherlock’s hand still gripped him by the wrist, but the control was no longer held unanimously in Sherlock’s fingers. Sherlock seemed to sense it, too, and whatever he was searching for in John’s eyes, he found it. John could see it in his face, in the way his thin lips skewed slightly into a smirk and his jaw settled into the shadows of his face. The tell-tale shimmer was back in his eyes, the same one they adopted when he had solved a case.

In seconds Sherlock had switched his position on John’s wrist, grabbing it from below and pulling John so his body was flush against his.

And, oh.

“Christ . . .” John needn’t say more.

John could feel Sherlock’s breath, hot and moist, blowing against his lips. Sherlock was all sharp lines and lean muscle. Their bodies were connected from head to toe, and John hadn’t even noticed before that he was painfully erect. But now, now, it was pressed directly against Sherlock’s own, and didn’t that just feel bloody _brilliant_.

Fucking hell.

“ _Sherlock_.”

It was a plea, and they both knew it. John was asking for an out, _begging_ for it. All he wanted was a cup of tea, perhaps some toast, and an average day of fevers and food poisoning down at the surgery. A sexuality crisis was in order, but John could barely get his brain to function past the shocks of electricity coursing through him from every point where Sherlock’s body connected to his own. Sherlock’s hand still gripped his wrist. But, most maddeningly, Sherlock’s breath was still ghosting over his lips. John had barely registered his eyes were closed.

Sherlock grabbed John’s arms and spun him around so his back was against the wall. John’s eyes flew open at that, and what he saw was Sherlock, pupils fully blown, lips parted slightly as he breathed in short huffs, his  raven curls reflecting the light that streamed in from the window. John could barely breathe.

“What do you want, John?” Sherlock removed his hand from John’s arm, only to rest it on his cheek. It was cold, lithe, soft, infuriatingly soft, and it smelled like Sherlock’s unique combination of cigarettes and the hand soap Harry had sent a few weeks back. John willed his breathing to slow, but his lungs, the disloyal bastards, released a shuddering breath instead. Perhaps that was answer enough.

The next instant John felt Sherlock’s grind against him, and all thoughts, every last one, was immediately replaced by a bout of creative cursing because _fuck_.

Sherlock did it again, and the friction, even through both of their trousers, was overwhelming, and John didn’t even attempt to stifle the slight whine that escaped his lips. Sherlock’s head dropped forward, his breaths no longer ghosting, but beating into John’s neck and shoulder as he pushed against John once again. Sherlock’s hand that wasn’t on his cheek was gripping him by the waist, and he could feel his nerves overreacting at every point Sherlock’s body connected with his. John let out a moan, low and feral, that he barely believed had escaped his lips.

“John,” was all Sherlock said, and it was all it took for John to come to his senses. The first thing he did after his eyes snapped open was push Sherlock off by the shoulders. He was against the wall panting like a marathon runner, pulse racing, palms sweating, hard-on pressed against his trousers, and the most confusing mixture of aroused and horrified. Sherlock hadn’t fared much better; he looked half debauched and all they’d done was rut against a wall. They’d _rutted_. Against a _wall_. Like bloody schoolboys. And John wasn’t, at least he thought he wasn’t, gay. Obviously he had a lot of thoughts to sort.

He saw in Sherlock’s eyes the confusion, which then morphed into something, something John couldn’t quite place, and John could tell he was about to say something, but at that moment the universe decided John Hamish Watson had not yet been allocated an appropriate amount of shit to deal with, because Mrs. Hudson marched innocently into the flat with a bag of grocery perched on each arm.

John cursed the day he told her to come and go as she pleased.

Sherlock’s head whipped around, and he noticed her walking in as well. She was humming something, but when her eyes graced over the room and fell on them, jaw dropping slightly, John bargained his obedience with whatever deity there was for the opportunity to simply disappear. If he looked anything like Sherlock, there was no hiding from Mrs. Hudson what had taken place, or whatever she assumed had taken place. John didn’t know himself what had just occurred. Alas, his prayers went unanswered, so he smoothed his shirt and his trousers, mentally willing his penis into flaccidity, and was about to address her when Sherlock did it himself, quite simply.

“Mrs. Hudson.”

“I thought you boys might do well with a bit of shopping, and I had a bulb that needed changing, but I’m sure it can wait, so I’ll just leave these here and be on my way. I’m sorry if I interrupted you two -”

The blush that creeped up her neck and spotted her cheeks made everything worse. She dropped the bags and hurried out of the flat, closing the door behind her.

Harry’s breathing exercises were once again put to use by John as he contemplated what _the fuck_ just happened.

He was aroused. By Sherlock.

And he couldn’t profer a response to the single question still rattling around the catacombs of his brain. What _did_ he want? More importantly what did he want f _rom Sherlock_?

John let out a sigh and ran his hand over his face before turning to face Sherlock, planning on mumbling a goodye and retreating to his room or the streets. He needed somehwere to think. Except Sherlock wasn’t next to him. The door to the flat was open and Sherlock’s coat was gone from the rack near it.

Sherlock had shoved him against the wall, grinded _his_ twin erection against John's, then had the _nerve_ to leave without so much as a word.

Then there was the question of John's sexuality. Had his casual glances at blokes not been as casual as he thought?

John was alone in the flat, cloaked in the confusion which replaced the nervous energy and oppressed by a question he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer to. He leaned against the wall and let his head fall back against it. He was going to need more than Harry’s breathing exercises to get through this one.


End file.
